


Two Precious Sons

by heartofstanding



Series: Henry IV and Fatherhood [2]
Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Appellant Crisis foreshadowing, Babies, Bad Parenting, Cute Kids, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Henry IV has daddy issues, Plantagenets' A+ Parenting, implied fertility issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Mary is pregnant with their second child but Henry is still struggling to bond with his firstborn son.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [His Autumn Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18266900) which somehow turned out to be 4 chapters long. Oops?

**London, September 1387**

Heavy with their second child, Mary turns from Henry to check on Harry, resting securely on Joanne Waryn’s sturdy hip. Harry is frowning rather dubiously at the façade of Ely Palace but he soon breaks into an utterly beautiful, joyful smile as Mary talks to him and strains towards her. Henry has only ever seen Harry smile like that at Mary.

Mary takes Harry in her arms and he tucks his head under her chin, hiding his face. Scared. Henry winces, glad his father is not here to see and somehow blame Henry for his son’s fear of these fine lodgings, rented with the Duke of Lancaster’s money.

Mary does not want to be in London. She has not said so, has not even hinted at discontent, but Henry knows all the same. She wishes they were still at Kenilworth, away from the city, away from parliament, away from the wounded, wrathful king. He wishes the same but he cannot abandon his responsibilities and he needs to be with her when her time comes.

Henry gestures Mary to go in before him and she smiles, pausing on the doorstep to kiss him. He presses a hand to Harry’s back and feels his son jerk, twisting his head around to stare at Henry, eyes blinking slowly. Mary’s mother often says Harry looks just like Mary did when she was a baby. Henry often wonders if Joan has confused timidity with quiet self-containment.

‘Go on,’ he says. ‘You have much work to do, including looking after this one.’

He tousles Harry’s hair and the boy ducks away. Mary kisses Henry again and goes in. He waits for Joanne Waryn and Mary’s ladies to follow her in, before beckoning Katherine Swynford over. He supposes he should be more embarrassed about her presence than he is – he didn’t exactly _ask_ for Mary to be saddled with his father’s mistress but he remembers Katherine from when she was just his sisters’ governess and a kind ear.

‘My lord?’ Katherine says.

He clears his throat. ‘Harry… isn’t walking yet.’

‘Yes,’ Katherine says. ‘Which is a bit of a relief, he gets around so fast just by crawling.’

Henry doesn’t really care about that. ‘But is that normal?’

‘Sometimes,’ Katherine says. ‘He’s getting close. We’ve seen him thinking about it.’

‘He doesn’t talk either. He makes a lot of noise but the only word he knows is – _mama._ ’

Henry hasn’t bothered to mention that in any of his letters to his father. He doubts Lancaster is actually interested and if he is, he will only be interested enough to make some crushing comment about how Henry has clearly already failed as a father. Henry has also not made any reference to the various illnesses Harry has suffered.

‘He’s only young,’ Katherine says. ‘And the countess is his world, my lord.’

Henry nods. He supposes that makes sense. But isn’t he also part of Harry’s world – why hasn’t Harry learnt to say _papa_? He knows why. The child barely seems to be able to stomach Henry’s presence, turning wary and sullen whenever Henry is near him. It doesn’t matter what Henry’s doing, how gently he speaks to Mary, Harry still stares at him like he thinks Henry might – well, Henry’s not sure, but he doesn’t think it’s anything good.

‘You shouldn’t worry so much about him,’ Katherine says, pressing her hand to Henry’s elbow.

‘He’s been sick,’ Henry says. Every time Henry has thought Harry was growing well, there has been something else. He had a cold at Christmas, then a fever in April and then three months ago, he had the flux most terribly and Mary hardly seemed to sleep, she was up tending to him often.

‘I know.’

And she does. She’s been with them the whole time, helping Mary tend Harry through each illness. Henry clenches his hands into his fists, nails driving into his palm, as he curses his own foolishness in letting her _see_ his fear.

‘But I mean – even with that in mind, he’s a normal, happy baby,’ she says, squeezing his arm. ‘Stop worrying so much. He’ll do everything you want soon enough.’

*

In the late afternoon, Henry goes to see Mary. He finds her ladies clustered in the solar where a few play instruments and others sew, giggle or gossip. Harry is sitting on the floor, piling wooden blocks on top of each other under Joanne Waryn’s watchful eye. Mary is not there. Henry feels a dull thud of panic, but surely they would not be so at ease if something was wrong.

‘Where is she?’ he asks.

Katherine smooths down her skirts. ‘The countess wished to lie down for a while, my lord. She was weary after the journey.’

He nods, mouth opening. _Weary._ He should not worry – he is tired himself and he has not spent the afternoon trying to organise the household, nor is he pregnant. But he cannot be _sure._

‘But she is – fine, isn’t she?’

Katherine nods. ‘Just tired. Margaret is sitting with her. I checked not too long ago and the countess was sleeping peacefully.’

He cannot place Margaret but it is a relief that someone is watching her. He looks down at Harry, the boy setting the last block on top of his pile.

‘You could sit with her, my lord,’ Katherine says.

‘I might. Mary would like that,’ Henry says.

‘Mama?’ Harry lifts his head and scans the room. ‘Mama?’

‘Your mother’s resting,’ Joanne Waryn says. ‘You can see her later.’

Harry doesn’t like this one little bit, leaning back and letting loose a loud, plaintive _mama._ Henry winces. The boy, at least, can yell. Henry understands the mournful tone – he would also not be pleased if he wasn’t able to see Mary and, according to Katherine, Harry’s whole world is Mary. Henry glances at Katherine before he kneels down beside Harry.

‘You can come with me if you want,’ he says, hoping Harry will say yes _._

Harry eyes him suspiciously and Henry tries his best not to seem threatening and not at all hurt or bewildered by Harry’s behaviour. He’s the boy’s _father,_ he’s not going to hurt him.

‘Mama?’ Harry asks dubiously.

‘I’m going to see her now. You can come.’

After a long moment, Harry crawls towards Henry and reaches out. Henry picks him up and immediately panics. Does he still need to support Harry’s head? Mary doesn’t seem to do so anymore, but what if he should and he ends up hurting Harry? He glances at Katherine but she doesn’t seem to have noticed his concern. This wouldn’t be an issue if Harry was walking.

Maybe it’s time he does, though.

He sets the boy down on his feet. ‘You can come with me if you can walk there yourself.’

Harry’s brow furrows and he stares down at his feet. Henry turns away just as Katherine steps forward, her mouth opening. But there’s a dull thump behind Henry and Harry starts to cry. _Really_ cry, loud and utterly heartbroken. Henry cringes, hands wanting to wring together.

‘No, no, _no,_ ’ Harry gasps out between sobs.

Henry turns around slowly. Harry has dropped onto his bottom and there are big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Joanne Waryn darts towards him, picking him up and trying to shush him. Katherine raises an eyebrow at Henry.

‘I was going to say,’ she says, ‘bribery’s not a very good idea. My lord.’

‘No, no,’ Harry sobs. ‘No, no, _Mama._ ’

Joanne Waryn shushes Harry again, rocks him. ‘My little magpie, it’s alright, it’s alright.’

Henry stares. He can’t be the reason why Harry’s crying – he _can’t._ All he meant to do is encourage Harry to do something he should already be doing. He didn’t mean for the boy to start _wailing_ like his heart has been broken. He didn’t try to walk and fall over, did he? Dread lines Henry’s stomach and Joanne Waryn can’t seem to comfort Harry, his tears seeming to double in force.

‘Let me,’ Katherine says.

‘Are you sure?’ Joanne Waryn asks. ‘I don’t think—’

‘I know what to do.’

Henry doesn’t think he imagines the look of relief in Joanne Waryn’s eyes as she hands Harry over to Katherine, but soon he has bigger worries because Katherine is handing Harry to _him._ The boy quietens at once, but Henry can feel him trembling all over, and when he checks, Harry is soundlessly crying which is somehow _worse._

‘What—’

‘Take him to see the countess,’ Katherine says. ‘It’s the only thing that will settle him now.’

Henry looks down at Harry and sighs.

*

Holding Harry only reminds Henry of the time he was a very small child and he picked up one of his dog’s newborn puppies and held it, feeling the minute shivers wracking its tiny body. He hastily put the pup down beside its mother, hoping no one had noticed and scared he had done it harm.

Thankfully, Mary’s room isn’t that far away. The boy clearly isn’t happy, keeping up his silent tears and trembling. Henry pauses and readjusts his grip. He doesn’t want to confront Mary with a crying baby. She’s meant to be resting. She’s probably _asleep._

 ‘Please stop?’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. We’re going to see your mother now. It’s not that bad.’

Harry doesn’t stop. Henry sighs. Maybe bribery will help fix this whatever Katherine said.

‘I’m _sorry._ Please, please stop?’ he begs. ‘If you stop crying, I’ll get you a new toy? More of those blocks? You could make a really, really big tower? Just please, please, _please_ stop crying?’

Harry doesn’t. In fact, he seems to get worse. The hitches in his breath become audible and Henry winces, sure he’s about to start wailing again, screaming _no, no_ loud enough that Mary’s sleep is disturbed and she comes to see who is murdering her precious son.

Henry sighs and glances down at his son’s head. His son has won – there is nothing else he can do but present his wife with a crying child and hope Harry settles down quickly.

*

‘Oh! Look at you two!’

Mary is sitting up on the bed, beaming at Henry. It must be the darkness of the room – the windows shuttered and thick tapestries covering the walls – because she seems so happy and not at all aware that her son is crying. Harry’s response is to turn himself into a liquid as he strains towards Mary, nearly toppling out of Henry’s arms. Henry grits his teeth and quickly lowers Harry down. As soon as his little hands touch the bed, he’s crawling towards Mary at great speed.

‘I missed you – Henry, why is he crying?’

Henry hides his wince behind a hand – he had hoped Harry would stop crying as soon as he saw Mary. ‘He wanted to see you?’

Mary gives him a sharp look but picks Harry up and settles him on her lap, murmuring soothing nonsense into his ear, calling him _sweet-thing_ and telling him how well he’d been playing with his nurse.

‘Mama,’ Harry says and thankfully he sounds happy as he snuggles into Mary.

Henry moves closer, dropping his head down to kiss Mary. She returns his kiss as she strokes a hand down the curve of Harry’s back.

‘I’m so happy,’ she says. ‘You didn’t have to take him here yourself.’

She is always encouraging him to spend more time with Harry, to _bond_ with him, and he tries, but the boy is difficult. Confused and wary, often sullen and shy. And Henry is often busy with far more important duties, he cannot give the boy the time he needs to get over his silly fears. But Henry can’t tell her the truth, that Katherine _made_ him do it.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘You’re always talking about it. And I was coming to see you, after all.’

She frowns at him and to distract her, he kisses her again. She smiles and pats his cheek, turning her head down to kiss Harry as well. He chatters at her with absolute nonsense for a few moments and Mary listens to him as she can understand everything he’s saying and not just the occasional _mama._ But then Henry grins – he has good news to tell her.

‘He said another word today,’ he said. ‘ _No._ ’

Mary’s mouth opens, delight breaking across her face. ‘Is that true, Harry? Did you say _no_?’

Harry straightens in her lap, staring up at her. His eyes are like a dog’s, dark and full of adoration. He opens his mouth and then – nothing. Henry sighs. Mary would say that Harry doesn’t _mean_ to, but he’s made Henry look like a liar.

‘He did, I swear,’ Henry says.

‘I know,’ Mary says. ‘He’s just – Harry, can you say yes?’

Harry blinks up at her again, and then, with a big grin, says, ‘No!’

Mary lets out a delighted cry, bending down to kiss Harry’s forehead, cupping his chubby cheeks. Harry giggles and coos at her, looking very pleased with himself. Henry slumps into a chair by the bed, relieved that Harry hasn’t made him look like a liar and a fool after all. Aren’t children _meant_ to love their parents?

‘You’re clever,’ Mary says. ‘You’re so, so clever. Henry, isn’t he clever?’

‘I suppose,’ Henry says and earns himself another sharp look, rife with disappointment. His heart hurts – he never wants to upset Mary. ‘Wait, you think he knew if he said no when you first asked, it’d be the wrong answer?’

Mary nods. ‘Just enough to make him hesitate – he doesn’t like getting things wrong. Mother says that’s why he takes a while to do things. He wants to be sure he’s doing it right.’

‘But he’s a baby,’ Henry says.

‘He understands more than he seems to,’ Mary says. ‘It’s just a matter of him feeling secure enough that he can do it. His nurse says he’ll be walking any day now.’

He wonders if Katherine told her about his own worries. Wonders if Katherine will tell her that he made Harry cry.

‘And you’re happy with that? You’re not… worried?’

Mary bends down to kiss Harry again, picking him as he reaches for her and resting him against the curve of her belly. She frowns. ‘Why would I be? He’s a bright, sweet boy.’

‘Oh,’ Henry says.

Mary’s frowning at him and he worries she’s going to say something serious. But then Harry yawns, patting his hand against her neck, and she softens, smiling. ‘Henry, why are you sitting over there? Come on. You look like you could do with a cuddle as well.’

Henry glances at Margaret, sitting in the corner with her sewing, and then back at Mary, before he slides onto the bed and wraps an arm around her. She rests her head on his shoulder, but his attention is drawn by the expression on Harry’s face, the sudden look of uncertainty – he’s entirely unsure about their family cuddle. But he settles down as Mary kisses his forehead and strokes his hair.

‘I love you,’ Henry tells her.

A smile curves Mary’s lips, utterly happy and pleased. ‘I love you too. And you, precious boy.’ She turns to Henry. ‘He’s so excited about the baby. He’s going to be such a good brother.’

‘Have you been training him?’

Mary giggles. ‘Henry, how would I know what it means to be a good brother? I just tell him about the baby and how much fun he’s going to have with someone to play with.’

‘He won’t be playing with it much if it’s a girl.’

Henry doesn’t like to think of the new baby. He knows it’s a good thing – even his father had seemed pleased by the news. Thomas Swynford, when he heard, elbowed Henry hard, laughing uproariously at the notion that Henry had gotten his wife pregnant so soon after the birth of their first child, though he’d stopped once Henry punched him. But Henry can’t help but remember his fear during Harry’s birth and how, for a week, he couldn’t stand to be around Harry even though it made Mary sad. Joan said that there’s nothing to suggest that Mary will struggle with this birth, that each time is different, but then she didn’t say there was anything to suggest that this birth will be any easier. He just feels as though the upcoming birth is a precipice they are hurtling towards and all he can do is pray it goes well and they don’t go tumbling over the edge.

He still can’t rid himself of the belief that one day, Harry will die on them.

Mary snorts. ‘What, girls don’t play? Or we don’t play with boys? I still remember you going along with all my pretend feasts, being the lord to my lady.’

‘That was just practice,’ Henry protests.

Mary laughs and kisses his cheek. ‘Yes, quaffing great vats of imaginary wine and pretending to eat primroses was such _great_ practice. It was just an excuse in case your father caught you. You _liked_ my pretend feasts.’

‘I liked _you_.’

‘You did. You also liked pretending to be my husband.’

He had. He liked it so much that when he heard the story that Mary’s guardian wanted her to take the veil, he felt destroyed because he’d never see her again. He had been so happy when his father told him that he’d be marrying Mary because no one would be able to tell him he couldn’t see Mary again.

‘And now I love being your husband,’ he says and cranes his head down to kiss her. Her lips are soft against his and he misses being able to share her bed for more than just these brief moments, misses being able to have her all to himself.

‘Mama,’ Harry protests, pulling at Mary’s bodice. ‘Mama, no.’

Laughing, Mary pulls away from their kiss. ‘Oh, little man, you must be hungry! It’s time for your dinner, I believe.’ She begins to sit up. ‘Margaret, go and see Joanne, make sure she’s ready with his dinner, or close to. We’ll be out in a moment.’

‘Oh, will we?’ Henry teases, moving to support her as she sits up. ‘I quite like this. It’s cosy and quiet.’

‘Mm,’ Mary says. ‘But it won’t stay that way if we don’t let our son eat. And I’m hungry too.’

‘Well, we can’t have you and Harry going hungry, can we?’

Harry just stares at Henry dubiously before pulling on Mary’s dress again.

*

The sun is out and warm the next day. Henry finds Mary and Harry out in the courtyard, Mary sitting on a stone bench, one hand on her belly as she watches Harry with Joanne Waryn. They have a little game going, where Harry will stand up on his own and his kneeling nurse will take his hands and lead him in a few steps before she picks him up, swings him around and they start over.

Henry crosses to Mary, kisses her upturned face.

‘You don’t seem that pleased,’ Mary says. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Richard’s invited us to Woodstock for a few days.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Mary says. ‘You wanted to talk to him.’

‘Yes, but.’ Henry sighs, not sure how he can explain everything _wrong_ with the idea of spending time with Richard. ‘He says Harry can come too.’

Mary’s head tilts to the side. Not far away from them, Harry claps his hands as Joanne Waryn picks him up and babbles excitedly.

‘Well,’ Mary says. ‘I would not like to leave him. He would miss us.’

‘Us?’ Henry asks. ‘He wouldn’t miss me. He doesn’t like me.’

Mary hums thoughtfully. He stares at the side of her face, unable to shake the sense of betrayal. He had expected her to deny it, though he wouldn’t have believed her.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she says at last. ‘He’s – cautious. And a little shy. He barely knows you.’

‘I’m his father.’

Mary leans her head against his shoulder. ‘And you barely spend any time with him. You won’t hold him longer than a few moments.’

‘He doesn’t like it.’

‘Again,’ Mary says. ‘I wouldn’t say that. He’s only following your lead. You look like I’ve handed you a pile of – I don’t know. He’s only as comfortable as you are about the whole enterprise.’

Henry sighs. He doesn’t want to talk about this any longer. ‘Right. Do you want to come to Woodstock? You have a good excuse not to come.’

‘This is a good excuse, isn’t it?’ Mary’s hand skims over her belly. ‘But I would like to see them – and, of course, show Harry off to them.’

‘Are you sure?’ He nuzzles against the shining braids of her hair. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know,’ Mary says. ‘I’ll be confined in my room soon enough when this one is born. In the meantime, however, I want to see as much of the world as I can. Does that make sense?’

‘It does.’

They watch Harry for a little while. Joanne Waryn pulls a tuft of grass out of his chubby little hand and replaces it with a ball. Harry stares at it avidly before letting it go. It tumbles onto the ground, rolling away, and Harry pushes himself up and crawls after it.

‘I wonder if Anne will be pregnant soon,’ Mary says.

Henry bites his lip. He doesn’t know and he certainly doesn’t want to pass on some of the filthy gossip he’s heard. Mary is a deeply pious woman and the subject matter would horrify and distress her. Besides, she’s fond of Anne and would be fiercely upset at the implications, even if she refused to believe it.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Soon, I hope.’

It should be a good thing. Anne is a lovely woman and deserves the happiness of motherhood that Mary has revelled in. An heir would hopefully push Richard away from his ill-chosen favourites, make him lavish even more attention on Anne, and it would bring stability and happiness to the kingdom. But Henry doesn’t really want them to have a baby. For whatever ugly, secret reason, Henry likes the fact that he has a son and a second child on the way, while Richard does not even know what is like to have a pregnant wife.

‘I will pray for them,’ Mary says.

She straightens up and calls Harry to them. He crawls over and pulls himself up, leaning on the bench to stare at Mary adoringly. Mary picks him up and sets him beside her, wiping the dirt and grass from his hands and knees and holds him close. He presses a tiny hand to the enormous swell of her belly.

‘Baby, Mama,’ he says. ‘Baby.’

‘Yes, clever boy!’ Mary says, kissing his cheek. ‘Your brother or sister is in there. You’ll see them soon, I promise.’

Henry smiles at Mary. She looks so happy and content, Harry in her arms and her belly big and heavy. She hugs Harry closer, rubs their noses together, and then turns and looks at Henry, reaching out to take his hand and squeeze it tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Mary’s father, Humphrey de Bohun, died without a son to inherit the Hereford earldom, resulting in his two daughters becoming heiresses. Eleanor, the elder of the two, was married to Thomas of Woodstock (soon to be Duke of Gloucester) who became Mary’s guardian. It appears he wanted Mary to go into a convent so that he could inherit the entire earldom and its revenues on his own but others intervened and, while Thomas was absent, Mary was “abducted” and married to Henry. There are numerous interpretations on this – some decidedly seedy – but I’ve chosen a more positive take. Chris Given-Wilson suggests that it was Mary’s mother, rather than her aunt, who intervened in to save her from a life in the convent. Ian Mortimer argues Gaunt did not intervene for the sake of Mary’s inheritance – there were other heiresses around – but because Mary and Henry were already genuinely fond of each other. 
> 
> John of Gaunt was in Castile with his second wife, Constance, in an attempt to claim the throne for himself until late 1389. Katherine Swynford – famous for being his mistress – held a position in Mary’s household during this time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry, Mary and baby Harry visit Richard and Anne.

**Woodstock, October 1387**

Richard would never abide anywhere ugly so naturally, Woodstock is beautiful. The palace’s walls are bright under the midday sun and the surrounds are well-tended, the trees already golden and even now there are bright flowers blooming. The palace is beautiful inside as well – full of light and colour, fires burning to chase away the autumn chill.

Henry wonders if he can say so to Richard without sounding jealous. His father says that Henry is incapable of giving a compliment without appearing envious. Henry does not think he is jealous at all – certainly, he is not jealous of Richard for who he married. Anne is lovely and Richard does not deserve her, but she is not _Mary._

Henry glances at Mary, wearing a new gown since her best gowns no longer fit her, but there’s no real difference between this one and the ones she has been wearing except the swans on the sleeves have been embroidered in silver thread. Still, he supposes she knows best about what her own clothes. He takes her hand, and his fingers close around hers and he frowns. She isn’t wearing any of her rings.

‘Where are your rings?’

Mary looks down at their clasped hands and laughs. ‘I must have forgotten to put them on – Harry’s been trying to eat them.’

‘Oh,’ Henry says, then it sinks in. ‘Oh God, he hasn’t actually—’

‘No!’ Mary says. ‘Thankfully. Though they are a favourite of his – the number of things we’ve had to fish out of his mouth is unbelievable.’

Henry chuckles, turning to watch her. He likes her in high spirits like this, cheeks flushed a pretty pink, eyes bright and smiling. She’s so beautiful and she’s _his wife._ He pulls her close, leans in to kiss her. Her belly bumps against his side and even the fear it inspires – what if the next child is even less sturdy than Harry? what if it takes her life? – does not dampen his affection.

‘But the thing I don’t I understand,’ he says when he pulls away, ‘is _why_ does he want to _eat_ the rings.’

‘That’s easy,’ Mary says. ‘They’re shiny.’

‘ _Shiny_?’

‘He’s a little magpie,’ Mary says, beaming. ‘Except he tries to eat his treasures.’

*

There is nothing Henry can criticise about Richard’s greeting to them. It is perfectly delivered, no insult offered, no courtesy unextended, and he treats Mary with warmth, ordering a chair to be brought for her and asking after her health. Yet Henry senses a cold weight lying behind Richard’s eyes, wants to take insult at it but there’s nothing he can point to and say, _see how he scorns my friendship._ Of course, they could have been granted a private welcome, not taken to see Richard enthroned in his great hall, obviously just to be impressed with how beautiful and kingly he looks in attempt to hide how unbecoming his behaviour is.

At least Anne is as kind and lovely as ever, a balm for Richard’s poor behaviour. Henry expects nothing less from her – he has never had any course to wonder at her behaviour or think to quarrel with her. She didn’t choose to marry Richard and it’s hardly _her_ fault that Richard is the way he is.

Anne leans in and whispers something to Richard, who nods before standing and saying they will withdraw for a _private audience_. Henry grits his teeth, turning to help Mary up – a private conversation is all he came here for, a chance to get Richard to _understand_ that they are not enemies, but friends merely trying to guide him on the right path.

‘Stop looking so grumpy,’ Mary says, twining her arm in his. ‘Your face will get stuck that way.’

‘I can’t help it,’ he says, though he wonders if she has a point. At least if his father was here, he would be lecturing Henry for appearing ungrateful and what people would _say._

They follow Richard and Anne into a private room, where there is two cushioned settles facing each other by a burning fire, a table set with food and wine between them. Henry looks over his shoulder as the door shuts.

‘Please,’ Anne says. ‘Come and sit. Eat if you wish – Richard thought you might be in need of refreshment, Mary.’

They sit down on the settles and sample the food. Henry’s hands feel unsteady but whenever he looks at them, they do not appear to be shaking or twitching. He needs to speak to Richard but he can scarcely do that in front of Anne and Mary. He closes his eyes and tries to marshal his thoughts, to pretend that this is just a friendly meeting. Something that they always should have had.

‘And where is your little one?’ Anne is asking. ‘Did you leave him behind?’

‘Oh no,’ Mary says. ‘He’s here, with his nurse.’

‘We didn’t think he would understand how to behave appropriately in front of the King of England,’ Henry says. ‘Especially in the great hall.’

He means it as a rebuke, but Richard only laughs.

‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ he says. ‘I suspect he understands very little of the world.’

‘And the travelling has worn him out,’ Mary says. ‘But I couldn’t bear to without him for so long.’

‘No,’ Anne says. She reaches for Richard’s hand, holds it. ‘I do not think I could bear to leave my child either – if I had one, that is.’

Anne’s cheeks colour and Richard squeezes her hand gently, his face concerned. Henry takes a sip of wine to give himself time to think of something appropriate to say because they clearly _want_ a baby. Though one would think Richard should dedicate himself a little more to Anne and less to Robert de Vere if that is the case.

Mary saves him from having to respond. ‘I am sure it will happen, in time,’ she says. ‘We have been praying for you.’

‘Have you chosen a name for this one?’ Richard asks, gesturing at Mary’s belly.

‘Oh, not really,’ Mary says. ‘If Harry had been a girl, we would have called him Blanche, so—’

‘After my mother,’ Henry says.

Richard nods. ‘So if this one is a girl, she’ll be Blanche? And if it’s a boy?’

‘We haven’t decided,’ Henry says. He doesn’t want to tell Richard he’s almost certainly settled on Thomas. Richard would not smile on a name that belongs to the uncle he’s made his enemy and to the Earl of Lancaster who so successfully challenged Edward II’s authority. Even if Henry says the name is in honour of Saint Thomas Becket, it will not please Richard, given how jealously he guards his royal dignity.

‘Do you have any sense about whether it’s a boy or girl,’ Anne asks. ‘Can you feel it, I mean? I know there are tests…’

Mary looks down at her belly, strokes a hand over it. ‘Not really. I think this one is another boy, though,’ she says. ‘And a handful – he’s always moving.’

Henry stares at the side of Mary’s face. She’s never said anything like that to him but he supposes he’s been far less curious about this child than the first one.

‘Another boy!’ Anne says. She sounds a little strange and Richard puts his arm around her. ‘May I – it’s fine if you don’t, but I would love—’

‘Oh please,’ Mary says.

Anne stands up and crouches down beside Mary. Mary takes her hand and rests on it on the curve of her belly. Anne’s eyes go wide in her beaming face.

‘Oh! Oh, yes – he’s a strong little thing, isn’t he? It’s quite strange, isn’t it? And he’s so – there he goes again.’

Henry’s attention is drawn by Richard. His eyes are lidded as they study Anne, his expression close to something like envy mixed with longing. Henry leans back in the settle, taking another mouthful of wine that tastes sweeter than it did before. For once, Henry has something that Richard does not have and wants.

Anne sits back down, tucking her skirts beneath herself before taking Richard’s hand in her own. Her face is downturned and, for a moment, Henry thinks her expression is sad and full of yearning, and feels a stab of guilt.

‘You must bring Harry to see us,’ Richard says. ‘When he is well-rested, of course.’

‘We will,’ Henry says. ‘But I should warn you – he’s quite shy and incapable of understanding how he should behave. You must not take insult—’

Richard snorts. Elegantly, but all the same his derision is clear. Henry breaks off, cheeks going red and hands clenching. Mary lays her hand on his knee, but he’s not sure whether it is a gesture of support or of restraint.

‘We are quite aware that being a baby, he behaves like one,’ Richard says.

‘I know,’ Henry says. ‘I wasn’t trying to – it’s only that Harry can be difficult.’

Mary sends him a sharp look, but he ignores it. It’s best to blame Harry for whatever insult Richard has taken from Henry’s words than to have Richard blame Henry. And he’s not lying – Harry _is_ difficult.

 Anne clears her throat discreetly.

‘Is he excited about the baby?’ Anne asks. ‘Becoming a big brother?’

‘Oh yes,’ Mary says. ‘He’s not speaking much yet, but “baby” is one of his favourite words.’

‘After “mama”,’ Henry says.

Mary smiles at him, her hand moving to clasp his. Anne leans in, her face sweet in its attentiveness.

‘He sounds like such a darling,’ she says. ‘We cannot wait to meet him.’

*

Mary is lying on the bed, Harry stretched out over her chest, head near her neck. Henry raises his brows at Mary, checking the sleeves of his gown. They’re meant to heading down to eat with Richard and Anne in a short while, Harry included.

‘We’re ready,’ Mary says. ‘He just wanted a bit of a cuddle beforehand.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Are you really wearing that hat?’

‘Yes?’ He reaches up to touch it. ‘What’s wrong with it? I thought you liked it.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it,’ Mary says. ‘It just doesn’t match your houppelande.’

Henry frowns and goes to change it, hoping she thinks this new hat is an improvement. When he returns, Mary is sitting on the edge of the bed, Harry sitting beside her, looking very handsome in his demi-gown which has embroidered swans matching the ones on Mary’s sleeves. Henry smiles at Harry, only for Harry to turn and plant his face onto Mary’s hip.

‘That’s a much better choice for a hat,’ Mary says, rubbing her hand over Harry’s back. ‘I think we’re ready. Joanne, will you take Harry?’

*

Anne gasps and raises her hands to her face when they enter and Henry freezes, unsure of what has drawn that reaction from her. Is it his hat? He is not sure that this hat is such an improvement on the old one as Mary seems to think. Or perhaps it is his houppelande – it is newly made on Mary’s orders and he never quite trusts her judgement in his clothing. At least, not at first. But Anne is smiling now, eyes bright, and she stands up.

‘Look at him! What a little darling!’

It’s Harry that’s drawn Anne’s attention. Henry looks to Mary, smiling, and Mary raises her brows at him, before taking Harry from Joanne Waryn. For once, Harry doesn’t seem that shy. He braces himself against Mary, turning to look around, his mouth dropping open as he stares at Anne.

‘I think he likes you,’ Mary says. ‘Or at least thinks you’re very shiny.’

‘We do try to be very, very shiny,’ Richard says, voice entirely serious and lips twitching.

Anne’s hands are clasped to her chest. She looks very pretty like this, Henry thinks, so eager and happy. Mary kisses the side of Harry’s head and he whips back to look up at her, one of those ridiculously happy smiles taking over his face.

‘That’s Queen Anne,’ Mary murmurs, quiet enough that Henry can only just hear her. ‘She’s very nice. Would you like to meet her?’

Mary moves closer to Anne and Harry – Harry _actually_ strains towards her, little arms reaching out. Henry’s jaw drops. He’s never seen Harry do anything like that when Mary’s holding him. _Never._

It’s probably because it’s Anne. She is, as Mary said, _very shiny_ and Harry apparently likes shiny things. Furthermore, to a child, she must look like a lovely, kind person, smiling radiantly with round, rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. Henry holds his breath, expecting that Harry will soon start squirming – or, worse, _wailing_ – as soon as Anne takes hold of him. But Harry behaves himself. Mostly. He grasps the jewelled collar Anne wears with one pudgy hand but is content just to hold it.

Anne laughs and bends her head to kiss Harry’s forehead. She looks almost as beautiful as Mary does. It’s a pity that she has not been gifted with a child of her own, really. And Harry is not so sullen or trying to hide from view, which is most assuredly a blessing and one that probably has a lot to do with Anne’s gentle, sweet presence. Perhaps it might be a blessing in disguise, coming here – if his appeals to Richard fail (and he hopes they will not, but expects they will), perhaps Anne’s influence can reduce Harry’s bouts of moodiness and make the child more agreeable.

Harry nearly ruins it all by trying to eat Anne’s jewelled collar, stuffing a large ruby inside his mouth. Luckily, Anne seems to think this is adorable and laughs, tugging it out of Harry’s mouth gently. She’s so good at this.

‘Does he eat—?’ Anne’s cheeks blush crimson. ‘I mean, of course he does, but does he eat – eat what we eat?’

Henry looks to Mary for the answer.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mary says. ‘He gets in an awful mess, though.’

‘I am sure we can cope.’ Anne glances back at Richard, her smile indulgent. ‘What are you doing over there still?’

Henry darts a look towards Richard, who is wearing an utterly besotted look that transforms into a cheeky grin.

‘Admiring the view?’

Anne flushes again but her smile becomes even more radiant. ‘Well, come here and look at him. It’s a much sweeter view closer to.’

Richard laughs and stands, moving to stand by Anne’s side. Harry stops trying to swallow Anne’s ruby and stares up him. Henry winces, bracing himself for one of Harry’s ear-splitting bellows or for Harry to dissolve into tears or try to hide. Richard, after all, is not nearly as friendly as Anne.

Richard reaches out a finger heavy with the signet ring and runs it gently down Harry’s face.

‘He most certainly is precious,’ Richard says, just as Harry makes a grab for his finger and shoves it in his mouth.

So much for Harry being _shy_ , Henry thinks and braces himself from what will most certainly be a tantrum on Richard’s behalf about the _indignity_ of having a child try to eat his finger.

But Richard only laughs and pulls his finger out, letting Harry clasp it between his tiny fingers again.

‘And hungry, I see,’ Anne says with a giggle.

Harry is rapidly working at trying to get the signet ring off Richard’s finger and Henry smirks, remembering that Harry’s been trying to eat Mary’s rings. Richard should know better than to wear a ring around a baby – Harry made a point to take his off, knowing that even if it’s unlikely he’ll end up holding Harry, it’s better to be safe than not. Richard wouldn’t know. He’s not used to being around children and is often incredibly childish himself.

Henry rocks back on his heels, waiting for Richard to learn the hard way. But what if Harry eats the signet ring? Richard would have a fit, believing it to be a great plot engineered by Henry to undermine his royal dignity. But the ring itself is a big, heavy thing and he imagines it would do a lot of damage to a baby’s insides. Make him choke, for a start, and _passing_ it – Harry would be in so much pain. Mary would be terrified.

He opens his mouth, ready to bark out _careful_ at Richard, but bites it back as he sees Richard pluck the ring out of Harry’s mouth, giggling with Anne and Mary as Harry tries to reach for it again.

‘You needn’t – I don’t think he _could_ swallow it,’ Mary is saying.

‘But he was certainly trying,’ Anne says, tickling Harry’s chin.

‘I am so sorry,’ Richard says.

‘No. Please, it’s not your fault,’ Mary says. ‘I should have warned you that he does that.’

Henry closes his mouth, letting his shoulders slump. So everything is fine. Harry is fine, Mary isn’t worried, and Richard, for once, is being reasonable.

Richard turns and beckons to an attendant, stripping his rings off as Anne distracts Harry with the ruby he’d taken a fancy too. Henry’s not sure whether that’s a good idea – it might give Harry _ideas_ about what he’s allowed to do – but he supposes Anne knows what she’s doing,

He takes a few steps forward, resting his hand against Mary’s back. She turns to him and smiles, laying her head on his shoulder. Harry babbles something to Anne, then twists in her arms, reaching out for Richard. Anne laughs and hands Harry over, covering her mouth when the first thing Harry does is reach for Richard’s golden hair and tug hard.

Grimacing, Richard takes him and leans down to rub their noses together. Henry finds himself smiling and squashes the impulse – Harry should _not_ like Richard more than his own father. It’s probably just – with Richard’s beauty and general shininess, his rather pathetic fluffy little beard – Harry’s confused and thinks Richard is more like his mother and Anne than Henry.

*

The meal goes well enough. Whatever coolness there is between he and Richard is mostly offset by the combined efforts of Mary and Anne, keeping things – if not light, close to. Harry helps, in his way, frequently getting passed around and apparently adorable at any and every given moment, even when he’s seemingly trying to eat his own hands.

Despite his nurse’s best efforts, however, Harry has dirtied and probably ruined his gown. At least she’s managed to keep his face relatively clean of the food Harry has tried to smear all over it. He’s obviously getting tired too, head and eyelids drooping.

Henry turns to look at Richard, wonders if he can get Richard alone to have the talk he wanted to. He didn’t come here for Richard and Anne to coo over his son, but to speak to Richard and get him to see sense. Yet Anne has seemingly been stitched to Richard’s side, made to act as his shield against counsel he doesn’t wish to hear.

Henry leans forward with the intention of trying to garner a promise from Richard for a private talk tomorrow. Harry chooses that moment to start screaming.

Henry jerks around to stare at his son; his red, screwed up face, tears leaking out of his eyes, mouth open wide in his cries. Mary’s chair scrapes back and she’s plucking Harry up from Joanne Waryn’s arms. Her expression is harried, flushed with shame, as she tries to calm Harry down. Harry quietens only a little, a hiccupping sob that breaks into a pleading _Mama._ Mary looks like she’s going to cry herself.

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ Mary says, rocking Harry. ‘You’re tired, you need to be in bed. I know. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Henry says, feeling rather useless.

‘Come,’ Anne says, standing up and moving to take Mary’s arm. ‘We will put him to bed now and it will be all better. It’s been a long day.’

Mary nods, holding Harry to her. She swallows and turns to Richard, curtseying as Harry continues to whinge.

‘If I may be excused, your grace,’ Mary says.

‘God, yes,’ Richard says, eyes wide. ‘Both of you, go and rest. We will see you tomorrow.’

Mary smiles stiffly and then she, Anne and their ladies go, Harry’s cries growing more and more distant until Henry can no longer hear them. Henry reaches for his cup, mouth dry, and swallows more wine. He has never seen Mary so disturbed by Harry’s behaviour. Maybe it is as Anne says, that Mary is tired. Henry had noted that as well – beneath her jewelled headdress, she looked tired, her eyes without their usual spark. He hopes it is not something worse than weariness.

He sets down his cup, does not taste the wine lining his mouth. He is alone with Richard now, and perhaps it is the right time to talk about what he wants to – the reforms, Robert de Vere’s odious influence, Richard’s poor choice of friends, the arguments that the Duke of Gloucester and the Earls of Arundel and Warwick are preparing even now.

But perhaps it is better to wait. The journey here was short, but the warm, open air, the meeting with Richard, the food and the wine have wearied Henry. There must be a point to his coming here, to bringing his wife and young child with him. If there is not, he may as well as go back to London in the morning. He won’t, of course – Mary and Harry need to recover their strength before they can leave.

But what he wants to do now is to follow Mary and make sure she is well. That her distress over Harry is just weariness, nothing more serious.

He finishes his wine and stands up, bowing to Richard.

‘Your grace,’ he says, careful to be correct – Richard is very sensitive about that. ‘I would like to speak with you alone – tomorrow, not now. It is important.’

Richard’s eyes sweep over him, his face cold and hard like stone. At last, he nods.

‘Tomorrow,’ Richard says. ‘In my room. After Sext.’

‘Thank you,’ Henry says, his neck stiff as he bends it in gratitude for this small offering.

*

Mary seems brighter in the morning when he sees her after Prime, her hair lying over her shoulders like gleaming shadow while Katherine Swynford brushes it in preparation to be braided and hidden beneath a coif. It seems a shame to hide it, Henry thinks, but it is shameful and vain to have it on display. Harry is sitting on the rush mat, his brooch in his mouth and a rattle by his foot, and seems peaceable.

‘Did he behave himself last night?’ Henry asks, stooping to kiss Mary and take a seat in the chair opposite hers.

Mary smiles faintly as Katherine sets down her brush and begins to wind Mary’s hair back from her face.

‘I am sorry,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t his fault – we should have sent him to bed earlier, but it was so nice. I wasn’t paying attention and of course Joanne could only try to hold back the tide until, suddenly, it was too much.’

‘I know,’ Henry says. He leans forward and takes her hands. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Anne said the same,’ Mary says. ‘But, still, it was embarrassing – having him scream so, in front of the king and queen, and know that he was only screaming because _I_ had not seen _him._ ’

Henry bites his lip, squeezing her hands. ‘He’s a baby still, babies cry at everything. He cried when I asked him if he would walk to see you. Ask Katherine, she was there.’

Mary laughs, pulling one hand free from his to cover her eyes.

‘As I have said, my lady,’ Katherine says. ‘It happens. And there is no harm done – Harry is in a fine and happy mood this morning.’

Henry’s eyes move to Harry, who has abandoned his brooch and is pushing himself up on his feet. He stands there, his eyes steadily on Mary, and then he takes a step forward. Another, then another, and another. Harry is halting, uncertain, tottering – but he’s walking. Henry squeezes Mary’s hand again.

‘Look,’ he says.

Mary drops her hand, then turns her head, a smile breaking over her face as she watches Harry lurch his way towards her. It’s the same smile Harry wears when he sees Mary, that utterly beautiful, joy-filled, unchecked curve of lips, and for the first time, Henry understands why Joan says Harry looks like Mary.

‘Oh, Harry!’ Mary says, ‘Oh, you wonderful boy, _look at you_!’

Harry pauses, wavering, but manages to stagger over to Mary’s chair, throwing himself against her legs. Mary picks him up, hugging him tightly.

‘My clever, _clever_ boy,’ she says. ‘You did that so well, didn’t you?’

Harry giggles and hugs Mary, sinking down into her lap. Henry grins, avoiding Katherine’s eyes, afraid he’ll read _I told you not to worry_ in their depths, and reaches out to tousle Harry’s dark hair.

‘Good job,’ he says, trying not to notice how stiff Harry feels under his palm. ‘Very good job. I’m proud of you.’

It appears to be the right thing to say because Mary leans in to kiss him quickly, her eyes bright, and Harry’s tenseness seems to lessen an infinitesimal amount, and that is a victory if nothing else.

*

Richard’s footsteps echo through the halls and Henry doggedly follows him. He’s said something wrong, he’s not sure _what,_ and Richard has, as he always does over the smallest of imagined slights, taken offence. Henry tries to think over what he’s said, how else he can appeal to Richard so Richard will finally make use of what little sense God gave him and _act_ before this comes to a head. But Richard seems set to continue in his ways, to live as he wills and ignore the wisdom Henry’s offering.

Richard comes out at a long hallway with windows that look down into the courtyard. He braces himself against the wall, and, unbelievably, smiles. Henry quickens his step. If Richard is in a better mood, he must try to take advantage of it.

‘Your son is walking now,’ Richard says.

Henry blinks, glancing down. Anne and Mary have come out into the courtyard with Harry and their ladies, and Anne is trying to encourage Harry to walk over to her, crouched down and waving a ball at him enticingly. Harry looks over to his mother before tottering over to Anne and getting a big hug in return.

‘Yes,’ Henry says. ‘Just started this morning. We’re very proud of him.’

‘You didn’t say.’

Henry bites back the retort he wants to make – they’re not supposed to be talking about his son and this is _serious_. He breathes in sharply, trying to quieten his frustration so it won’t bleed into his voice enough for Richard to notice.

‘Sometimes you just want to keep these things to yourself for a little while.’

‘Of course,’ Richard says. ‘I understand. He is quite sweet, I think. You must love him very much.’

Henry’s mouth opens. Is this a test? If Richard was anyone but Richard, Henry would suspect this statement is nothing a trap so that Henry may humiliate himself by gushing about his infant son who cannot even say _papa_ or else reveal himself to be utterly indifferent to his own son. But this is _Richard._

‘He was quite… puny when he was born,’ Henry says, at last.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Richard says. ‘He seems to have grown up quite well though.’

Henry risks another look. Anne has settled on the stone bench beside Mary and they are playing that game where Mary hides behind her hands. Harry reaches out, trying to yank Mary’s hands down. All three are laughing. Henry breathes in sharply and he wonders – does he love Harry or not? He has never thought about that in those terms before. And if he does love Harry, does he love him because it is his duty to love his son, just as it is his duty to love his father even though he fears and dislikes Lancaster?

Mary takes Harry onto her lap and it’s Anne’s turn to hide behind her hands from Harry. Harry isn’t as bold with Anne, but he waits expectantly for her to lower her hands and giggles when she does, clapping his hands together. He does not seem remotely sullen or shy, his mood bright and merry. Henry’s head tilts as he studies his son. Harry is his own person now, no longer that ruddy blob of a baby that slept, sickened and recovered. He has words now, plays well and with laughter, likes things that glitter and shine, and loves his mother dearly.

Harry tugs on Mary’s sleeve, hides his own face behind his hands, mimicking her and Anne. Henry’s lips twitch, breaking into a full smile as Harry ‘reveals’ himself and hugs Mary tight.

And then it hits Henry, right on the heels of his doubt, that he loves Harry. Not just as his duty and their shared blood demand but because Harry is precious. Henry has been too hesitant, has tried to shield himself from a hurt that never came, and now – he has waited too long. He cannot wait any longer.

He turns to Richard.

‘Give me leave to go,’ he says, so fast the words come out a garble.

Richard’s brows rise sharply. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes! No,’ Henry says. ‘Give me leave to go and it will be.’

*

Mary turns to him, smiling as she plays with Harry’s dark hair, and Henry can barely remember or find the patience to bow respectfully to Anne before he’s right in front of Mary. He means to lift Harry from her lap and hug him close, but at the last moment he registers Harry’s wariness and so sits beside Mary, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her back against his chest.

‘Did my husband say where he was going?’ Anne asks, bending to pick up the ball and offer it to Harry. Harry takes it carefully and clutches it to his chest.

‘No,’ Henry says. ‘No, I did not – I do not know.’

‘Ah,’ Anne says, and then her eyes move over Henry’s shoulder, her lips curving in a brighter smile still.

Henry turns. Richard has followed him down into the courtyard, though Richard seems not to have run as Henry had. He raises his brows at Henry, slightly questioning, but immediately turns his attention back to Anne, holding his hand out to her. Anne goes to him, going up on tiptoe to kiss him. Henry averts his eyes, sets them on his small son, turning the ball the queen gave him over and over in his hands.

He only raises his head when Richard and Anne leave together. Mary leans back against him with a soft sigh and he kisses her.

‘Did you get the talk you wanted?’ she asks.

Henry’s mouth opens, then closes – he has almost forgotten that he wanted to talk to Richard, wanted him to listen and heed Henry in a way he never has before, in his rush to get to Harry. She doesn’t know what he wanted to talk to Richard about, not in any detail at least, and he doesn’t want to worry her.

‘Nearly,’ he says. ‘I got distracted.’

‘You?’ she says. ‘Distracted?’

‘By you,’ he says. ‘And our boy.’

‘Oh?’ Mary laughs. ‘What did we do that was so distracting?’

‘The game, with the hands,’ he says.

When she laughs again, he can’t help it, leaning in to kiss her again and draw her closer to him still. He pulls back, dropping his eyes down to Harry, his little face uncertain.

‘I love him,’ Henry says. ‘I don’t – I don’t _know_ what to do, but I love him.’

Mary smiles at him, reading to stroke his cheek. ‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realise it.’

‘It’s not my forgiveness you really want though, is it?’

It’s not. But he can hardly expect Harry to understand, much less to give him the forgiveness Henry wants so badly, the promise to try again and build a relationship. He takes a deep breath and holds his hand out to Harry, the palm flat.

‘Harry,’ he says, stops to swallow and clear his throat. ‘Harry. I’m your father – your papa – and I love you. So much. I really do.’ He turns to Mary. ‘I don’t really know what else to say.’

‘Oh, you can tell him anything,’ Mary says. ‘He’s a good little listener. I tell him all sorts of nonsense and he doesn’t mind.’

‘Probably because he chatters nonsense back to you as well,’ Henry says. He wriggles his fingers enticingly at Harry. ‘Harry. You are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and clearly, everyone around here thinks the same. Like that?’

‘Mm,’ Mary says. ‘More or less. Just try to be yourself.’

Which isn’t exactly helpful, but he supposes she has a point. He clears his throat and straightens his back, looking down at Harry.

‘You’re my son,’ he says and stops again. ‘Your mother is quite lovely, isn’t she? So beautiful and loving, so bright with joy.’

‘ _Henry,_ ’ Mary gasps, giggling.

‘What? It’s true, isn’t it? And he looks so much like you.’

Henry starts when he feels something brush against his outstretched hand, looks down to see Harry grasping his fingers with his tiny, pale hands. Harry leans over to study Henry’s palm intently, tracing the lines with his fingers. Henry holds his breath, trying not to frighten Harry. He imagines this is the way a woman feels when she stumbles over a doe with fawns in her garden.

Harry pats Henry’s palm gently with his own and then withdraws. Henry lets out a breath, turning to look at Mary. Does this count as a success or a failure? Or maybe something more in the middle of the two? But then, he feels something drop in his palm and looks down, seeing Harry’s ball lying there, Harry staring up at him, a little timid still but no longer so wary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was mainly written after conversations with angevin2 about how adorable Anne and Richard meeting baby Harry would be. 
> 
> **Historical Notes**  
>  Richard and Anne were at Woodstock from 20 September to 15 October according to Nigel Saul’s itinerary for Richard. I don’t know whether Henry visited them, but Ian Mortimer suggests that one of the reasons Henry delayed in fully committing to the Appellants was to see what Richard would do.
> 
> Anne and Richard’s lack of children has been interpreted in numerous ways (e.g. he was gay or asexual, incapable of having sex with Anne, they had a chaste marriage) but the work of Kristin L. Gleaman suggests that the marriage was consummated and both Richard and Anne had hopes of children, with the lack of them possibly due to Anne having fertility issues. It’s possible that by 1387 Anne had suffered at least one miscarriage.
> 
> Michael Bennett suggests that Henry may have named his second son, Thomas, in honour Thomas of Lancaster, whose canonisation was being considered and promoted around the time of the Appellant Crisis. This Thomas of Lancaster had been a major thorn in Edward II’s side, challenging his authority and one time stripping Edward of all power. Given Richard II was concerned with the preservation of his own royal authority and was a bit of an Edward II fanboy, I think the idea that Henry named his son after Thomas of Lancaster would have gone down like a lead balloon. It’s also been theorised that one of the godfathers of Henry’s Thomas was none other than Thomas of Woodstock, one of the chiefs Lords Appellant - also a choice to get Richard’s back up. It’s also possible that Thomas was named in honour of Thomas Beckett.
> 
> Harry’s toys were partly based on the information given in Nicholas Orme’s _Medieval Children_. The “buckle” appears to have been a medieval equivalent of a teething ring.
> 
> There are reports that Harry, when born, was small and sickly and "puny" comes up fairly often as a descriptor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes an effort to bond with his son and worries about the upcoming birth of his second child.

**London, October 1387**

Why did Henry ever want Harry to walk?

Harry is tottering around the solar on his own two legs – though, thankfully, there are moments where he resorts back to a crawl. Even though Mary is unfazed by it, Henry can barely pay attention to the music or the conversations going around him, his eyes trained on his son. What if Harry falls over? And not like one of those gentle falls where he suddenly plops down onto his bottom. What if he _hurts_ himself?

Why, in God’s name, do babies have to learn how to walk? Can’t they wait until they’re sad and wise, or at least big enough that falling down won’t do more damage than a scraped knee? At any given moment, Harry could do himself serious damage.

Harry makes a small noise, dropping his ball and watching it roll over the floor before trotting after it. Henry only relaxes when Harry slows down and stoops to pick up his ball – and then promptly is taken over by a fresh wave of anxiety when Harry starts the game again, letting his ball go only to chase after it.

They have been back in London for a little longer than a week and Henry thinks his visit to Richard ended in failure. Richard promised nothing and listened with only half an ear. And Henry had to grit his teeth when they took their leave of him and Harry lurched forward, still uncertain on his feet, to hug Richard’s leg. Of course it was sweet and everyone said so, but it was _his_ son hugging _Richard._

Harry trots near the fire and then stops, staring. Stretched out beside the firescreen is one of the cats, a beast with black fur flecked with orange and Harry drops down and scoots forward on his bottom. Henry holds his breath – the cat will surely scratch or bite Harry.

‘Harry,’ Mary says. ‘Be gentle, remember?’

Henry’s eyes dart to Mary, who has paused in her sewing to watch Harry. Harry reaches out and gently, if clumsily, runs his hand along the cat’s side. The cat doesn’t seem to mind, lifting her head briefly before resting it on her paws again, tail flicking lazily. Mary tells Harry he’s a good, precious boy and he beams at her before resuming his petting. He seems to be happy just to stroke his hand along the cat’s fur and Henry begins to relax, thinking Harry might be settling down again, no longer wanting to rush about and risk his skin.

But no. Harry pulls himself up and sets off with his ball again. Henry heaves a sigh and lets his head fall back.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mary says, setting down her sewing to rub a hand against her belly.

‘Why can’t he just sit still?’

Mary giggles, leaning down to catch Harry as he rushes past her and hugs him close.

‘Why don’t you show Papa your ball, hmm?’ she says. ‘I’m sure he’d love to play with you.’

‘No, Mama,’ Harry says very soberly, leaning into her.

The solemnity of his voice is almost absurd enough that the words don’t hurt. _No._ He doesn’t want to play with Henry. Has Henry already failed then? His son will never love him? That it is pointless to try to bond with him now, that their relationship is doomed forever to this wariness?

‘Yes,’ Mary says. ‘He would love it. Very much so. Right, Henry?’

Henry manages a nod, but he can’t bring himself to voice his agreement. Harry has made himself very clear. Mary sighs and kisses Harry’s head, snuggling him close before setting him down on the floor again. Harry trots off after his ball again.

‘Henry,’ Mary says, and then sighs again, more heavily than before. She rubs a hand over her face, picking up her sewing again. ‘I’m making a new gown for Harry, he’s growing so much. It should fit him for the Christmas celebrations.’

‘That’s good,’ Henry says, though he wonders what kind of Christmas they will have with his father still in Spain and Richard as intractable as ever. ‘How many do you think he’ll go through?’

‘Well,’ she says, head tilting to the side. ‘A fair few. He still hasn’t quite mastered food going _in_ his mouth instead of all over his face, hands and clothes.’

Harry’s ball rolls over near Henry’s foot. He looks down at it, waits for Harry’s hand to snatch it away but Harry doesn’t. Henry picks the ball up and then glances over at Harry. Harry is watching him carefully but fearlessly and sitting very still as if waiting expectantly.

‘This is yours, I believe?’ Henry says, holding the ball out to Harry. His throat feels thick.

Harry nods slowly, glancing once in Mary’s direction as if for reassurance, but he doesn’t move to get it. Henry sighs and rolls it over to him, sitting up straight again and closing his eyes. He knows what Mary would say – _it takes time, small steps, he’s following your lead._ But it doesn’t really help – he’s trying and trying to do better, and Harry keeps rejecting him.

The ball hits his foot. Henry’s eyes snap open. Harry is watching him, hand still outstretched from where he let the ball go, and there’s a flash of mischief in his eyes.

‘He’s _playing_ ,’ Mary says, her giggles barely stifled. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh, he is, is he?’

Henry lowers himself to the floor, sending the ball careening gently back to Harry. He doesn’t expect much else to happen, but Harry keeps rolling the ball to him, becoming more and more relaxed, his mischievousness shining through when Henry nearly misses (on purpose, of course) his passes.

But Harry tires. He stands up carefully, clutching his ball and totters over to Mary, holding it out to her and Henry pulls himself back onto his chair, trying not to feel bereft. It was a simple game, hardly taxing, but it felt more than that.

‘Mama,’ Harry says, straining up towards her. ‘Mama.’

Mary takes the ball and sets it in her lap. ‘I’ll keep it safe for you, love.’

Harry nods, pats her belly and says, _baby_. Henry smiles. It is better than what he thought _,_ he supposes – Harry has shown an interest in him, a willingness to play and he is sweet. He looks over at the musicians, the one with the lute is wearing a ridiculous hat, but a better player than most.

‘Henry,’ Mary says, just as a small hand falls against his shin.

Henry looks down, sees Harry’s upturned face.

‘Up, up,’ he says, raising his arms. ‘Up!’

Henry catches him around the middle, pulling him up on his lap. Harry wriggles a bit, as if not comfortable, but soon settles himself there, head tucked against Henry’s chest, eyes closing. Henry wraps a careful arm around him, holding his son secure, and watches Harry drift off to sleep. When he can tear his eyes away from Harry, Mary is wearing that utterly joyful smile again.

‘I think I’m stuck here,’ he says. ‘Does that happen? A child falls asleep on you and you can’t move?’

‘All the time,’ Mary says, her smile getting bigger. ‘Eleanor, my sister, used it to her own advantage – if her husband was on one of his rants, she would give him one of her babes to hold and that quietened him at once.’

Henry tries to imagine Gloucester distracted from one of his rants and can’t.

‘So you’re saying I am definitely stuck.’

‘Yes,’ Mary says. ‘I am sure you will cope.’

He looks down at Harry again, how sweet his sleeping face is. He’s sure he can do better than cope. This is what he wanted, this gesture of – if not love, trust. It’s the start of something better between them, maybe – hopefully. He cups the soft roundness of Harry’s cheeks gently and Harry sighs, squirming before settling again.

‘The best thing,’ Mary says, ‘is lying down with him stretched out over you.’

‘Oh?’ Henry says. He doesn’t want to move, to take Harry and lie down on a bed. Especially if it means leaving Mary here, where she can’t give him guidance or translate Harry’s moods for him. But there is no reason why he can’t enjoy this, can’t relax with Harry on his lap. A nap, after all, seems tempting enough.

*

Henry and Mary are sitting together on the settle, her head on his shoulder and body stretched out. The musicians have been dismissed and they have heard a recitation of some new tale. It is late and Henry is too comfortable to move, his hand stroking along Mary’s side. Some of her hair has slipped itself free of her coif, the dark strands stark against her pale cheek. He reaches and tugs it gently, until the lock, soft and smooth like silk, lies across his fingers.

‘Perhaps we should ask the queen to be godmother to this one,’ she says, laying her hand over her belly.

Henry hesitates. He is not sure it is a wise choice – not when things are so tense with Richard and Henry leans every day towards the men Richard has made his enemies. It is nothing to do with Anne, of course, but Richard will not see it that way.

‘No?’ Mary says.

‘I am not sure it is wise,’ Henry says at last. ‘And Harry would be jealous when he realises he does not have a queen for a godmother.’

‘I suppose so,’ Mary says. ‘I think I am bigger with this babe than I was with Harry. Do you think so?’

Henry is not very sure. He has tried to avoid thinking of her pregnant, worried about what this birth could do to her. If this child will be as ill and weak as Harry was, if she will spend days in labour again and if she will survive the birth.

‘I haven’t noticed.’

‘Sweet, wise man.’ Mary smiles and raises her head to kiss him. ‘But I would like to see this one sooner rather than later. As does Harry. He says goodnight and good morning to the baby every day.’

Henry lets his head fall back and laughs. It’s so sweet and simple, the things a child will think of, will do. The things his son takes pride and joy in. He wishes it will never change.

*

Mary tucks her hand around his arm and Henry remembers a little over a year ago when they had walked arm-in-arm in the gardens of Monmouth, the day before her pains began, two days before Harry’s birth. It is not the same here, in London. The air is closer, walls enclose them, and autumn moves closer to winter rather than lingering in the last of the summer heat. But the gardens are pretty enough and Mary is beautiful, turning back to speak sweet nonsense to Harry, trailing behind them with his nurse.

Soon, Henry thinks, he will go and carry his son. He can carry Harry in one arm and leave the other free for Mary to hold. She will like that.

‘Let’s sit for a little while,’ Mary says.

She changes direction and leads them over to one of the stone benches set before roses beginning to look bedraggled and old. When she lowers herself down, she lets out a heavy side and both hands land on her belly, her legs spread to accommodate its girth. Concern rises within Henry.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Just tired,’ Mary says. ‘I couldn’t get comfortable last night.’

‘Is there anything—?’

Mary smiles up at him and she _does_ look weary, her eyes a little red, the skin beneath a little bruised.

‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘It is nice just to walk, though.’

Harry tears free of his nurse and comes scampering over, crying out _mama, mama._ Mary’s smile widens and she bends to catch him, hugging him tightly. They pull Harry up on the bench, sitting him between them. He tries to worm his way into Mary’s lap despite the fact there’s not quite enough room for him and gives up with his feet on Henry’s leg and head on Mary’s thigh, not exactly appearing comfortable and definitely wearing an unhappy expression.

‘Poor darling,’ Mary says, fighting back giggles. ‘It will be over soon, I promise, and then you can sit on my lap again. And the baby will be there to play with too.’

Harry huffs a sigh but looks a bit brighter. ‘Baby?’

‘Soon, love.’

She reaches behind her and plucks a rose petal from the bush, drags it down his face until he giggles as well, reaching out to bat at her hands, trying to steal the petal from her. Harry’s little legs kick against Henry’s thigh and he reaches out to tickle the soles. Harry goes still and pushes himself up to stare at Henry before reaching out for the petal again, Mary teasing him with it. At last, he catches it – or rather, Mary lets him have it – and stuffs it in his mouth and then he’s swallowing.

Henry looks up in alarm, but Mary only pokes him with her finger.

‘It’s a rose petal,’ she says. ‘Not poison. Stop worrying, silly.’

*

When the day begins to dim and cool, they decide to go in and Harry, worn out by all his toddling, whines and clings to Mary when they try to get him to sit up. Mary sighs and cuddles him close, kissing his small face.

‘Little man, we need to go in,’ she says. ‘And I can’t carry you.’

Harry whines again, louder than before, and Henry glances at Mary before reaching for Harry.

‘What if I carry you?’ he says. ‘You’ll be close to Mary – to your, your mother that way.’

Harry looks at him, still hanging on to Mary’s arm, then back at Mary. Henry feels his heart sink – Harry’s hesitancy is clear. He still doesn’t trust Henry enough to carry him.

‘No? Quite right,’ Henry says.

He turns and gestures for Joanne Waryn to come forward, ignoring the small, pained sigh Mary makes as she cuddles Harry close again. It will come, he tells himself, it will come and when Mary gives birth, she can help him bridge the gap between himself and Harry. It will be better then. He must believe that.

*

Henry has Katherine come to see him one late afternoon, after he has spent the day hawking with Nottingham, trying to avoid thinking of the strife with the king. Katherine rises straight-backed from her curtsy, folding her hands in front of her. The fading sun shines on her handsome face, making her look younger than she is.

‘When will the child come?’

‘Soon, my lord,’ Katherine says.

‘You sound like Mary when Harry asks about the baby. _Soon._ Is there nothing better you can say?’

Katherine grimaces. ‘As I told you – before the end of the month. This one is an October baby, but perhaps late October.’

Henry nods.

‘Where is Mary now?’

‘Lying down,’ Katherine says. ‘She’s been tiring early of late – she’s not sleeping well at night. Harry’s having a nap.’

‘All asleep?’ Henry says, feeling a small smile creep across his face as Katherine nods.

He wonders if that means he is supposed to be sleeping too. He scrubs a hand over his beard, feels the absurd jolt of pride that even as patchy as it is, his beard is still more impressive than Richard’s.

‘Will this—’ Henry swallows, tries to centre himself. ‘Will this birth be as bad as Harry’s was?’

Katherine’s brows shoot up and he knows she was there, that she remembers just how long Mary had been in labour with Harry, and that she probably knew better than him the fears for Mary and Harry. She, likely, saw everything Henry didn’t.

‘I don’t know, my lord,’ she says at last. ‘For most women, the first birth is the hardest – the body hasn’t learnt quite what to do. Unless there’s something wrong, this time should be easier. Quicker, at least.’

‘And if something is wrong…’

‘We won’t know until it happens,’ Katherine says. She bites her lip and steps forward, laying her hand on his elbow. ‘It is useless to fret about the possibilities of the future. We can deal with what is certain.’

Henry shrugs. He supposes that makes sense, in a way, but he’s not sure how he’s just supposed to _stop_ worrying. There are no guarantees and Mary is precious beyond measure – he cannot just blithely accept a risk to her life.

*

It’s a wet, cold day, more sleet than rain, so instead of going out into the courtyard after the meal is over, they retire to the solar. Joanne Waryn picks Harry up and takes him over to the window so he can look out at the rain. His small hands touch the glass only for him to jerk them back, examining his palms with a confused little _no._ Henry smiles, raising his cup of wine to his lips. The glass is obviously too cold for Harry. When his nurse sets him on the ground, Harry scampers over to Mary, holding out his hand for her to see.

‘Mama,’ he says, practically bleating.

Mary smiles at him, bending over his hand to examine and exclaim over it.

‘Oh, love, was it too cold? I will fix it,’ she says, before planting a kiss on his palm.

Henry stares, amazed, as Harry giggles.

‘That works?’

‘Mama’s kisses cure all ills.’ Mary shoots him a little smile. ‘Or most of them, anyway.’

Henry doubts her kisses did much to soothe Harry when he was sick. Henry kept his distance in those days, but even he heard Harry’s screams and tears that didn’t seem to ever stop until the child exhausted himself and the silence that came after seemed even worse. And Mary’s kisses certainly didn’t _cure_ Harry then.

But then, what does Henry know? His own mother’s kisses may have had curative properties, he wouldn’t know. She died before he could remember her. When he was little, before he knew any better, he asked his sisters what their mother had been like. Elizabeth didn’t remember much – she thought their mother had to be a saint, she was so pretty and smelt so lovely. Philippa, eight when she died, remembered her a little better – said that she was _luminous,_ whatever that meant, and that everyone seemed happier when she was around. She said their father was a completely different person – softer, nicer, he smiled _more._ Henry hadn’t believed – and still doesn’t – it was possible for his father to be nice.

‘Harry will be thirteen months old exactly next week,’ Mary says.

Henry nods, watching as Harry wanders off to play with his blocks. Harry stacks them up into a tall tower that he then knocks over with a delighted cry.

‘Should we celebrate?’ Henry says

‘No,’ Mary says. ‘Or else he’ll expect the same every month for the rest of his life and we’ll be exhausted.’

‘But he’ll be thirteen months old,’ Henry says. ‘ _Exactly._ ’

‘And next month he’ll be fourteen months old exactly,’ Mary says. ‘And his little brother will be a month old exactly too. And then there’ll be more children, all getting a month older each month…’

Henry grins. ‘It’ll be great.’

‘We’d be exhausted,’ Mary says. ‘And we’d run out of money. No, he’ll get a present when his brother’s born—’

‘And the present is his brother?’

Mary giggles, her cheeks flushing prettily. ‘No, no. Something else. Mother says when I was born, Eleanor was very jealous and upset because she suddenly had to share Mother’s attention. A bit of spoiling will make Harry not feel so neglected.’

But Harry is already quite spoilt, though Harry’s careful not to say that to Mary’s face – she would be insulted, thinking he was questioning her ability to mother their son. He’s surprised she isn’t making a fuss of Harry for reaching another month – before, she was always telling him how many days and weeks old Harry was. But then, he supposes Harry was younger and sicker then; perhaps Mary was counting each day Harry lived, a sense of _he has lived for another day, he has been alive three months, two weeks and six days._

They are lucky to have Harry.

Henry stands up and picks up a piece of marchpane from the plate by Mary’s elbow, marches over to Harry. Mary keeps her giggles in check as he goes down on one knee and presents it to Harry and tries to keep himself steady when Harry looks dubiously at him, a block in one hand. He doesn’t seem to that enthusiastic about the idea of marchpane.

‘Harry,’ Mary says, ‘it’s alright. You can take it.’

Harry sets the block down carefully – he always seems to be careful, Henry thinks – and reaches out, small fingers brushing against Henry’s before he takes the marchpane. He holds it in his hand for a moment, his fingers squeezing it tight, before he smiles at Henry and tries to shove the whole thing into his mouth.

Henry retreats, not sure if this counts as a victory or failure. Neither, he supposes. Harry required prompting to accept his treat from Henry but he smiled at Henry.

‘Don’t look so sad,’ Mary says. ‘It’s progress – for both of you. And now, look, he’s getting into an enormous mess.’

Harry is indeed making a mess. The marchpane has been partly crushed by his grip and crumbs have fallen on his gown and on the floor. His face is shiny with salvia and he’s doggedly trying to lick his hands clean and get the last of the marchpane. Henry looks at the plate again – if he gives Harry another piece, Harry might like him better – but Mary shakes her head slightly.

‘He’s only little,’ she says. ‘One piece is enough.’

‘But he likes it,’ Henry says and bribing Harry with sweets might be enough for him to win the boy over to liking him.

‘He does! He likes marchpane so much that he’ll happily gobble it all up until he makes himself sick.’

Harry has finished licking his hands, looking at them with disappointment and Mary turns and directs Joanne Waryn to tidy Harry up before his sticky hands can land on anything they shouldn’t. The nurse obligingly whisks Harry away and Henry settles back in his chair, not sure whether he’s disappointed or not. He’s able to relax now that Harry’s gone, but he also feels the dread, the sense that _of course_ Harry’s gone, that he will never be able to connect with his son, to bond with him properly. But at least, Henry supposes, it is better than before. Harry smiled at him.

*

Henry is just returning from a visit to Gloucester and he feels sick with worry and fear. For the first time, he wonders if he should have taken Mary with him to London, if it would not be wiser to have sent her to Kenilworth or Monmouth again, or better yet to Pontefract, where she would be untouchable. It is too late now _._

She can’t be moved. Not for some time. Once she’s given birth, she’ll need to recover and be churched before she can travel. Of course, she should be safe _here_ – Richard would not harm a woman, surely, and if he would, Anne would stay his hand. But that is assuming it is Richard that deals with her. If the people of London are roused in anger against Henry, against his father, as they were six years ago—

No. He mustn’t think of that. Mary will be safe.

Perhaps he should stay out of this, let Gloucester, Arundel, Warwick and Nottingham act as they see fit. He can’t, though. Richard needs to learn to be _better_ and Henry must protect his father’s interests and his own.

He finds Mary in the courtyard again, sitting on the edge of the fountain. Harry is beside her, hands splashing about in the water and his ball beside him. Henry smiles to see it; his son is curious if nothing else and they should probably watch him so he doesn’t—

Mary grabs Harry as he attempts to dive into the fountain, pulling him back towards her. They both giggle and then Mary raises her head and sees Henry, a smile breaking over her face.

When he is beside her, he kisses her quickly, cupping her face gently, before sitting down on her other side, careful to give Harry space. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, trying to clamber down from the edge of the fountain before Katherine comes to his rescue and then darting off with his ball. Henry winces; if Harry falls, he could hurt himself badly out here.

Mary takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. ‘Has anything changed?’

‘No,’ he says. He doesn’t want to tell her about his worries, she has the birth to think about. ‘I don’t know who is more stubborn – the king or Gloucester.’

‘Oh, Gloucester, definitely,’ Mary says. ‘Anne – the queen – sent us some gifts. Foodstuffs mainly. But I think she wants to steal Harry, she sent so many presents for him.’

‘Well, she can’t have him,’ Henry says, eyes going to Harry, his dark hair shining in the afternoon sun as he ambles about with his ball. It strikes him that Harry is rather lonely with no other children his age to play with.

‘I know,’ Mary says. ‘I’d scratch her eyes out if she tried. But she wouldn’t.’

Henry glances at Mary, then away. Her voice is light, amused, but he supposes she means that. She is very protective of Harry.

Harry comes running over to them, putting his hands on Henry’s legs and demanding _up, up,_ so there is little Henry can do but lift Harry up onto his lap. Harry leans over, pressing his hand to Mary’s belly and murmuring _baby,_ and Mary says _soon,_ reaching out to cup the back of Harry’s head. She glances at Henry as Harry tries to hug her belly, and mouths _hug him._ Henry stares at her – Harry’s busy trying to give his brother a hug, he won’t welcome Henry pulling him away.

‘Not now,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘When he’s finished.’

Henry opens his mouth – he’s not sure this is a good idea, Harry is liable to become tense and stiff if Henry hugs him. Harry’s gotten better, but Henry doesn’t want to frighten the boy off just when they’re making progress.

Harry sits back on his lap and Mary’s still looking at Henry, her gaze set, and Henry has the sense that if he doesn’t do as she says, he will somehow irreversibly offend her. The feeling sinks through him like a huge, dreadful weight so he gathers Harry to him. The boy squawks but doesn’t tense up. Instead, he twists around and hugs Henry _back._ It’s enough to make Henry want to cry.

He doesn’t, however, because that would be unseemly.

He tightens his grip instead and whispers _I love you_ into Harry’s ear. The boy jerks his head up, staring at Henry with confusion and awe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> “Sad and wise” is a term used by medieval people to describe the transition into adulthood, per Barbara A. Hanawalt’s _Growing Up in Medieval London_.
> 
> Nottingham is Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham who, of course, was one of the junior Lords Appellant and later Duke of Norfolk.
> 
> Mary’s sister Eleanor de Bohun was older than her, probably by a few years as she was married about five years before Mary was and had given birth to her first child in 1382. Mary resided with Eleanor and her husband, Thomas of Woodstock, until she was considered of age in about December 1384, and was likely present at the birth of at least two of Eleanor’s children. In fact, the evidence of the oft-repeated story about Mary giving birth to a short-lived child in 1382 in all likelihood refers to the birth of Eleanor’s son, Humphrey of Gloucester, who died in 1399. This information comes from Amy Licence’s _Red Roses_ and Ian Mortimer’s _The Fears of Henry IV_.
> 
> “If the people of London are roused in anger against him, against his father, as they were six years ago” refers to the Great Revolt (or Peasants Uprising) in 1381, in which John of Gaunt (who was luckily in Scotland at the time) was the target for a lot of anger the rebels had. Henry was in the Tower of London when the rebels sacked it and was in need of rescue. If you want to read about it, I suggest Juliet Barker’s excellent, _England Arise_ though most biographies of Richard II and Henry IV cover it. My favourite fictional treatment of it is angevin2's fic [And Villeins Ye Shall Remain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/506820) which focuses on Henry's reactions in its aftermath.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry's second son is born.

**London, October 1387**

The first thing Henry hears when he returns from yet another meeting with Gloucester is a baby screaming. _Harry_ , he thinks and dread overfills his stomach. He spent a good part of yesterday afternoon with Harry, passing the ball back and forth between them. The boy seemed so strong, full of spirit – he even hugged Henry’s leg when his nurse took him off to bed. And now he is screaming again.

What is this time, Henry wonders. An autumn cold? Another fever, another bout of the flux? Perhaps he fell and scraped his leg bloody? Maybe he tried to get in the fountain again and nearly drowned?

Henry cannot – if Harry is sick, _again,_ if his life is in danger, _again,_ he cannot cope. Not now he loves Harry, not now Harry has become a little more comfortable with him.

But it’s odd. Harry hasn’t cried like this in months.

Katherine is striding towards him, checking herself at the last and curtsying before straightening. Her hair is escaping from her braids, her face flushed.

‘My lord,’ she says. ‘We were just about to send word to you.’

‘Well,’ he says. ‘I am here now. What is it?’

His voice is more level than he feels.

‘The Countess has given birth,’ she says. ‘She and the babe are in good health – as you can hear, he’s quite… lusty.’

Henry’s stomach leaps in his belly. ‘What? She’s – but this morning she was fine.’

‘It happened quickly.’

Henry takes a breath. He looks around and covers his face with his hand. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about this. The cries begin to taper off and then, suddenly, everything is too quiet.

‘And it’s a boy?’

‘Yes,’ Katherine says. ‘The countess said you’d chosen the name Thomas.’

Henry nods. They had. There’s no reason he can think to change it now. Gloucester will be a fine godfather, better than Richard in all likelihood.

‘I can see her?’

‘Of course,’ Katherine says. ‘She’s been bathed and just settled into bed. The babe will be with her.’

*

The room is dark and warm, a handful of candles burning on the table beside the bed, and it smells of herbs and roses. Mary is in the bed, the child – _Thomas,_ Henry thinks, _Thomas_ – lying on her chest. He stops, staring.

‘He’s bigger than Harry was,’ he says, somewhat stupidly.

Mary gives him a smile, proud, exhausted and a little sardonic. ‘Believe me, I know.’

Henry starts and then shakes his head, sitting on the edge of the bed and running a finger over Thomas’s hair, the wispy blond strands that he thinks might curl. Thomas’s eyes snap open, the colour of them like the stormy sea, and he stares at Henry, utterly unafraid. Henry grins.

‘Thomas,’ he says. ‘I’m your father. Your papa.’

Thomas keeps staring at him.

‘You can hold him,’ Mary says.

‘Can I? I don’t – I didn’t—’

‘Of course you can,’ she says. ‘Just make sure you support his neck.’

She eases Thomas into his arms, soothing him when he looks disgruntled and about to scream again, and Henry cradles him close to his chest. It feels so much easier than it was with Harry. He supposes Thomas seems a little sturdier, a little bigger – and no one seems to think that Thomas will sicken and die like they all thought Harry would. He bends his head and kisses Thomas’s head, murmurs silly things at him that he would be ashamed to hear himself say at any other moment.

‘He’s amazing,’ Henry says, looking up at Mary. ‘He is. Look at him.’

Mary laughs, her hair loose around her shoulders, her face tired but jubilant. ‘I _am_. He’s perfect, isn’t he?’

Henry nods, breathing in the scent of his son. He wonders why Harry could not have been like this, strong and drawing Henry’s love so effortlessly. Even now, growing in good health, he is not this easy. He kisses Thomas again, then relinquishes him back to Mary, watching Thomas settle, eyes sliding shut.

‘I can’t believe – it seemed so normal, this morning. I wouldn’t have gone if I’d _known._ ’

‘Well, I didn’t either,’ Mary says. ‘And I’m glad you weren’t here. You would have worried.’

She reaches out and cups his cheek, smiling when Henry nuzzles into it and presses a kiss onto her palm.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Well enough, all things considered,’ Mary says. ‘Which means I am sore and tired, but that’s to be expected.’

She shifts in the bed, soothing Thomas when he opens his eyes.

‘Did you hear him screaming?’

Henry nods.

‘They were trying to swaddle him and he was having none of it,’ Mary says, laughing. ‘He has such strong opinions already.’

Henry grins. ‘And a stronger voice.’

Mary nods, stroking a finger over Thomas’s chubby little cheek, and then raises her head and grins at him. Henry leans in closer, watching Thomas’s mouth open in a yawn, his hand curling into a small fist beside Mary’s breast.

‘I love him,’ he says, and then to Thomas, ‘I love you. Your papa loves you.’

 Thomas squints at him and then tucks his head closer to Mary’s chest with a little sigh. Henry smiles, feeling it go wobbly – his son is so precious. Mary giggles and strokes her hand over Thomas’s back, helping him settle.

‘Henry,’ she says. ‘Will you go and get Harry for me?’

‘What, now?’

Mary sends him a baleful look. ‘He needs to meet his brother – and no doubt he’s fretting, it’s been _hours_ since he’s seen me.’

Henry doesn’t want to leave Mary and Thomas. He doesn’t fear for them, of course not – they seem strong and in good spirits. But it feels… good here. Precious.

‘What if he’s sleeping? Or hungry?’

‘He should have just finished napping,’ Mary says. ‘And we can all eat together. Please, Henry. He’s not the only one fretting.’

Henry draws his shoulders up and nods. He supposes it is unfair that Harry is missing out on meeting his brother – and Mary, clearly, wants Harry with her. Henry supposes that having Harry join them will only make this _better._ His two boys.

*

The nursery is fairly dark, the windows shuttered and only a handful of candles burning, but Harry is chattering away to his nurse as she redresses him. Henry stops to watch but Harry and Joanne Waryn see him before too long and Harry goes quiet as Joanne sinks into a curtsy before carefully straightening and finishes dressing Harry in a few short moments. Harry peers at Henry, then looks over his shoulder.

‘Mama?’ he asks, and Mary is right, he _is_ fretting.

‘She’s alright,’ Henry says. ‘She wants to see you.’

Joanne Waryn makes to gather Harry up, but Henry holds up his hand and dismisses her. Of course she will be needed later, but he wants to keep this gathering small and intimate – there must have been a reason why Mary sent him to fetch Harry when she could have sent one of her ladies instead.

Harry’s eyes narrow suspiciously as he’s left on his own with his father and Henry hopes he’s not made a terrible mistake.

‘Harry,’ he says and decides to try it, just once. ‘Can you say papa? _Papa_?’

Harry stares at him, opening his mouth and making a series of small noises before finally managing a _no-no._ Henry sighs. He didn’t expect much, but it would have been lovely if Harry had managed to say _papa,_ a jewel to crown this golden day. Henry shouldn’t be so hard on him; Harry only knows a handful of words and he’s shy with Henry still. Henry simply has asked for too much, too soon.

‘Well,’ Henry says. ‘We should go, shouldn’t we?’

He reaches out for Harry, the boy recoils, staring at him. Henry sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. He thought Harry would find this acceptable, being carried to see Mary.

‘Mary – your mother’s had the baby,’ Henry tries.

‘Baby?’ Harry’s eyes narrow further.

‘Yes. Baby,’ Henry says. ‘We named him Thomas. He’s – wonderful, really. A bit sleepy and small and loud, but perfect.’

Harry makes a little noise like _oh,_ almost a hiccup, and scoots back when Henry reaches for him again. Henry nearly runs after Joanne Waryn, calling her back. But he must try.

‘Harry, please,’ he says. ‘Your mother wants to see you and you won’t get to see her unless you let me carry you, alright?’

Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Henry bites back the curse that wants to break free. No doubt if he speaks it out loud, _that_ will be Harry’s very next word, delivered _so_ innocently to Mary in a way that makes it plain that he learnt it from Henry.

‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Fine.’

Henry turns away, gritting his teeth. This was meant to be easy, taking Harry to see his mother and new brother. Harry’s meant to be _happy,_ not wary and sullen again. Henry will have to fetch Joanne Waryn back so she can take Harry to see his mother. She will probably think him very foolish and incapable, but he can’t – he has to take Harry to see Mary, and every moment he’s away from Mary and Thomas is awful. It was meant to be easy and good. Why does Harry have to be so _difficult?_

Things have improved – as Mary says, progress has been made. Sometimes he sits on Henry’s lap, sometimes he suffers Henry’s hugs or plays with him. But it’s clearly not enough and Henry has the feeling that things are always going to be like this. Small improvements, but no trust. And love? Henry can’t fathom Harry ever loving him.

He could force it, he supposes. Pick Harry up in spite of the boy’s clear reluctance and hope he doesn’t scream and carry on until he’s delivered to Mary. That could show him that Henry is not a threat – but Harry should already know that. And Mary would be alarmed by Harry’s tantrum, to say nothing of Thomas, confronted by his squalling brother. No. Joanne Waryn is his best choice. Henry places his hand on the door and squares his shoulders.

Harry’s voice, raised and indignant, halts him. There are no words but the same series of sounds Harry made before when Henry asked him to say _papa_. Henry turns around, seeing the fury on Harry’s face, screwed up with effort.

‘No Mama,’ he says. ‘No Mama.’

‘I told you,’ Henry says. ‘She wants to see you.’

Harry only looks more frustrated and his voice rises further, Henry wincing with it. At this rate, he won’t have to find Joanne Waryn, she’ll come running.

‘No Mama!’ Harry says, then makes the sounds – _pa, pap –_ again, his face getting redder and redder as frustration bleeds into his voice.

Henry hurries back to him, reaching unthinkingly to pick him up in order to try and soothe him. He has the sense that Harry might explode from frustration soon and as much as he’d rather it be Joanne Waryn’s problem, he doesn’t want her looking at him and blaming him for upsetting the baby _._ This time, at least, Harry doesn’t recoil but grabs hold of Henry’s doublet.

‘Shh, shh,’ he tries. ‘It’s alright, it’s alright.’

‘No,’ Harry says. ‘No.’

Henry sighs. At least this is something they agree on. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘It’s not. But we can do better, can’t we?’ Little Harry, it’s fine. Your mama wants to see you, we can go there.’

Harry makes those sounds again, and Henry sighs, rubbing Harry’s back. He should just start walking, he supposes, and hope Harry’s agitation disappears before Mary and Thomas see him.

‘ _Papa!’_ Harry says, utterly furious, and Henry nearly drops him.

‘What?’

‘Papa,’ Harry says, more sulky than angry.

Henry stares at him, mouth opening and closing. _Harry said it._ Very angrily, but he said papa. He hugs Harry tight and thinks back to the sounds he was making – _pa, pap_ – and realises they weren’t as nonsensical as he thought, but Harry trying to work out how to say _papa._ Henry squeezes his son tighter.

‘Oh Harry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. You were trying, weren’t you?’

Harry pulls back to look at him, his eyes reproachful.

‘Papa,’ he says. ‘ _Mama._ Baby.’

‘Alright, alright,’ Henry says. ‘We’re going.’

*

‘Mama!’

No sooner than they’ve gotten inside the room and Harry is wriggling, trying to get out of Henry’s arms and onto the bed with Mary. Mary is sitting up this time, supported by pillows and cushions, and Thomas is tucked into the crook of one arm. Mary beams towards Harry, holding out her other arm to him. Henry sets him on the bed and watches Harry speed his way towards Mary until he’s wrapped up in her arm.

‘Oh sweet-thing, I’ve missed you so much,’ she says, planting a kiss on Harry’s forehead. ‘Oh, my little man, you’ve been so good for Joanne today, haven’t you? You’re such a good, precious boy.’

‘Baby?’ Harry says, peering at Thomas.

‘He’s here at last, love,’ Mary says, kissing Harry’s forehead again. ‘He’s very little and sleepy, so you have to be gentle, remember? But he’s your little brother. Thomas.’

Thomas sighs a little and Harry slides down onto his bottom beside Mary, leaning over to touch Thomas’s feet, the pink soles so tiny. Henry bites his lip, they’re so adorable, his two sons.

‘Would you like to hold him?’ Mary asks Harry.

Harry lifts his head up and stares at her, before nodding very quickly. Henry opens his mouth. She can’t be serious. Harry isn’t big or strong enough to hold Thomas and he won’t know to support the head.

‘Mary…’ Henry tries.

Mary smiles at him, looking utterly calm and beautiful, and Henry relaxes. She’s probably thought about this before and come up with a plan.

‘It’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘Take Thomas for me, please?’

He moves in and gathers Thomas in his arms. Those stormy eyes slip open and regard him warily, before softening. Henry holds the boy close, feels him wriggle and tries to keep him calm, all the time scrutinising Thomas’s face, his small, perfect body. He kisses Thomas’s forehead, gets a yawn for his trouble.

‘Henry,’ Mary says gently. ‘We’re ready.’

Henry looks up and finds Harry tucked under Mary’s arm, his own arms outstretched. Henry swallows. He sees now what Mary means to do – both she and Harry will hold Thomas together. But he doesn’t want to surrender Thomas just yet. Even so, he does, carefully laying him over Harry’s and Mary’s arms, and then perching on the edge of the bed beside Harry, putting his arm over Mary’s shoulders.

Thomas’s eyes are still open and when Harry murmurs, quietly but happily, _baby,_ he seems to try and focus on Harry’s face. They study each other for a good, long moment and Henry braces himself. What if Harry decides he doesn’t like Thomas as much as he’d liked him when he was a baby in Mary’s belly? What if Harry frightens Thomas? Thomas is so small, so fragile.

Harry bends down and brushes his nose against Thomas’s, then kisses Thomas’s forehead and cheek before looking up at Mary. Mary smiles at him gently, her eyes wet, but Henry thinks they tears of joy rather than anything else. Henry grins, leaning over to press a kiss the side of her head.

‘He’s perfect,’ Henry tells her.

Thomas raises his hand, almost smacking Harry in the cheek, and Henry winces, waiting for one – or both – of them to start squealing, but Harry only giggles and takes Thomas’s hand in his own.

‘They are,’ Mary says.

*

When Henry comes to see Mary on the next day, Harry is already there, sitting beside her in bed and clutching a stuffed velvet swan that’s bigger than he is, and Thomas is being quietly fed by his nurse in the corner. Henry hastily averts his eyes but heat still stains his cheeks as he bends to kiss Mary’s hand and then her lips.

‘Harry got a swan,’ Mary says. ‘And we finally got Thomas swaddled, though he’s none too happy about it.’

‘I imagine not,’ Henry says.

He turns and tousles Harry’s hair, then scoops the boy up for a hug that’s only a little awkward. He sets Harry back down on the bed, only for Harry to present him with the swan.

‘Papa,’ he says.

‘He wants you to look after it,’ Mary says and reaches out to draw Harry close to her, brushing his hair away from his face.

‘It’s a very lovely swan,’ Henry tells Harry. ‘And I will guard it with my life, Harry.’

Harry blinks at him, his expression puzzled, before he lays his head on Mary’s shoulder and murmurs a line of nonsense that ends with _Mama, Papa._ Mary kisses his forehead and cuddles him close.

‘He is a little clingy,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you, love?’

‘No,’ Harry mumbles, but presses closer.

Henry bites back his smile and looks at the swan in his hand. It’s quite masterfully made, soft and cuddly but still believably a swan. He sets it on his lap gingerly, watching the Harry and Mary until Thomas is brought back with a full stomach.

Soon, it becomes apparent what Mary means by Thomas not being very happy about being swaddled. He makes his protests known by letting out ear-piercing shrieks every so often and refuses to quieten unless Mary or his nurse hold him. When he starts up again, still in Mary’s arms, Harry pats Thomas’s screaming, red face and goes, _shh._

Miraculously, Thomas quietens down at once.

*

Henry takes a deep breath and lets it go. Thomas was baptised today and behaved himself rather well, screaming only once or twice and then to much laughter. It was certainly better than Harry’s baptism, where he silently shivered throughout the ceremony despite the haste of the priest. Now Thomas is back in Mary’s arms, sleeping, and Harry is on the floor playing with his blocks and swan.

Gloucester had been one of Thomas’s godfathers and Arundel another. They had spoken after the ceremony, made plans. Henry thinks of them now, running his fingers over his beard. He’s not sure this is wise, but there seems to be no better course of action. This needs to be done.

He beckons Katherine over to him.

‘When will she be churched?’

Katherine counts the weeks off on her fingers. ‘I think the twenty-second, twenty-third of November? She’s recovering well.’

Henry nods. Twenty-second, twenty-third. That is a little late in his reckoning – he would like Mary to be well-away from London by then – but she and the children should still be safe. He lays his hands flat on his lap.

‘I want her and the children to leave London on the twenty-fifth.’

Katherine nods, a little wide-eyed. ‘Yes, my lord. Where will we be going?’

Somewhere safe. He doesn’t want Mary or his sons caught up in what will follow. He is tempted to say Pontefract, the impenetrable stronghold loyal first and foremost to Lancaster. But Mary does not like it there, would become anxious if he sent her there, thinking they are at greater risk than they are. And there are places that are more to Mary’s liking and almost as safe.

‘Kenilworth,’ he says. ‘She always enjoys spending time there.’

Katherine nods and Henry knows she will see Mary safely there and work to keep her protected from the world. He takes Katherine’s hand and squeezes it, before going to see Mary.

‘What were you talking about?’

Henry smiles, reaching out to brush Mary’s hair back from her face. ‘Ah. Just where you and the boys will go after you are churched. We thought Kenilworth.’

Mary’s brows raise, and she drops her head down to bury her nose in Thomas’s hair. ‘Ah. So you will not be going with us?’

‘I’m needed elsewhere.’

This does not set her at ease. Her fingers clench around Thomas even as she nods.

‘And you think it wise to go where they say you are needed? The queen has been a friend to me, I would not like to become her enemy by going against the king.’

‘It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ Henry says. ‘And it’s not against the king, but his favourites, and only because he is too much led by them. Anne will still be your friend. We’re really helping her, you realise.’

Mary’s lips thin a little and she looks rather doubtful, but luckily, Thomas stirs with a squalling yell and distracts her completely.

*

When Henry returns from his meeting with Gloucester, Arundel, Warwick and Nottingham, it is getting towards evening so he goes straight up to see Mary. At this time, usually both boys are with her and he knows that today, Thomas is two weeks old exactly. He is getting bigger and more awake with each day that passes.

Sure enough, Mary has Harry and Thomas with her, Thomas lying on her chest and Harry tucked up under her arm. She is singing to them, crooning some little nonsense song about ducks and rivers. Henry smiles, leaning against the doorway, content to wait until she’s finished.

‘More, Mama,’ Harry says, tugging at her.

‘Oh Harry,’ Mary says. ‘My little magpie, I think Thomas is tired of it.’

Harry peers at Thomas and then shakes his head. ‘No.’

Mary laughs and squeezes Harry. ‘In a little while. Your papa’s here, see?’

Harry, to Henry’s surprise, seems to brighten up at this. ‘Papa!’

Henry grins and goes over to the bed, stopping to ease Harry out from under Mary’s arm and give him a tight hug, feeling the boy’s arms wrap around his neck. He kisses Harry’s forehead and then sets him down on the bed, eying the collection of new toys on the floor. The swan is still in pride of place, but there are some new blocks, painted different colours from the old ones, and a set of soft puppets.

‘What are these?’

‘Some of the things the queen sent for Harry,’ Mary says, running her hand down Thomas’s back. ‘I don’t think he quite knows what to do with the puppets, and I haven’t shown him how they work yet…’

Henry puts his hands on his hips. ‘Why not?’

Mary laughs and points to the baby on her chest. He grins and plucks up the puppets off the ground, setting them down on the bed. Harry picks up one and studies it intently before placing it – gently – on top of Thomas.

‘Tom,’ Harry says.

Henry’s grin widens. Harry’s started saying _Tom_ more than _baby_ now, he can’t quite manage _Thomas_ yet though.

‘That’s very kind of you, little man,’ Mary says. ‘But you keep it. Thomas is too small to play with that yet.’

Harry pouts a little but takes the puppet back. Henry takes the chance to ease Thomas off Mary and into his arms. Thomas stirs, stormy eyes moving to study Henry’s face intently before he wriggles and reaches up to poke Henry’s nose. Henry kisses him and sits down in the chair by the bed. He likes these moments with Thomas, getting to hold him, to feel the scrutiny of this son and not be found wanting.

Meanwhile, Mary sits up and puts a puppet on her hand, and Harry gasps and claps his hands, reaching out as if trying to catch it as Mary makes it move and interact with him. Henry leans back in his chair, and watches, contented, his two precious sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Thomas is frequently characterised as Henry IV’s favourite son. 
> 
> Thomas’s exact date of birth is unknown. At best, he was born before November 1387 when a midwife present at his birth is credited in Henry’s accounts. Based on arguments made by Amy Licence in _Red Roses_ , it seems likely he was born in London. Mary would have been churched 4-6 weeks after his birth and given that she was evacuated from London by November 25, I decided he must have been born by late October at the very latest. The date I settled on for his birthday is 19 October.
> 
> By a similar token, his godparents are unknown (I don’t believe we know who any of the Lancaster children’s godparents are), though some have speculated that Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester was one as Thomas bears his name. The practice of naming a child after their godparent seems to have been fairly common though there are always exceptions. I figured if one Lord Appellant was godfather, another might as well and as Arundel is another relation (Mary’s maternal uncle) he seemed a safe bet. Harry’s baptism was mentioned in [His Autumn Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18266900) and was characterised as a rushed affair and his godparents were probably whoever was “to hand”. 
> 
> “Gloucester, Arundel, Warwick and Nottingham” – these are the Lords Appellant with Henry.


End file.
